


She Is Home

by theGirlwithtoomanyOTPs



Category: How I Met Your Mother
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3618357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theGirlwithtoomanyOTPs/pseuds/theGirlwithtoomanyOTPs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small one-shot of a day in Ted and Tracy's life together</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Is Home

The roast beef was just out of the oven when Ted came home.

Ted wasn't surprised. She'd always find the time to cook for him at least once or twice a week.

They hadn't moved in together yet, despite knowing full well that it would be fine, it would be great. Both didn't want to seem too eager, even within two years of such a wonderful relationship. They wanted to take their time, heal wounds, love each other fully.

But then again, one day they just realized, Ted had a spare key to her apartment in his color-coded keychain; Tracy had hers part of her necklace collection months after they got the key. Long ago, Ted would have been all but freaking out about being given a copy to his girlfriend's apartment. But when the realization came, he had already been over without so much as a knock or permission for weeks on end. Same with her. It just felt... _natural_.

He couldn't complain. No matter how tired he was after a long day of work, her place just seemed comfier, warmer... more _home_ than his new apartment, smaller in comparable to the one he'd left when he almost made the mistake of moving out to _Chicago_ but infinitely closer to hers.

He reveled in the tiniest ways he could do it; _become closer to Tracy_.

To be able to recite back a favorite poem; she was better in Spanish than he would ever be. To sing along with her, memorizing lyrics to the ones she hums most on lazy Sunday afternoons, not quite matching her own tone. To reach out a little his finger and touch the tips of hers when they sat in public whether alone or not and feel his heart beat faster when she always takes his hand; _how skin never truly leaves skin_ , even when not in bed. To finish her sentences when she feels too much and can't find the right words and have her say, _' **yes** , thank you! That's exactly what I was going for!'_ and kiss him, just kiss him where she can, just because he knew her too well. To be able to bake her cupcakes or know her exact order in the Thai restaurant five blocks away when she felt down during her time of the month. To be able to tell if she used the lilac soap or the freesia blossoms that day based on how her day started out. To know which smile means 'that's hilarious' and 'aw, shucks' and 'are you seriously not kidding' and 'okay, buddy, sure' with just one glance. To know before she wants to eat Chinese or Korean or _Scottish-Mexican_ fusion (which they finally tried on their sixth date. They had take-out. The music was too loud.) To know when she wants him to stay the night without a word and when she wants waffles or pancakes or toast or bacon and eggs when she wakes up.

He was overly-pleased that he was given the chance to be the one that was closest to her.

He was glad he was the one who made her smile when she starts and ends her days.

He wanted to absorb everything about her. The absolute joy everything she did that she made him feel. The feeling that even when they fought made him always come back to her. He could never stand arguing with her. He loved her too much to see that frown in her face, to see that hurt he’d caused.

He loved her so much.

And the little things _, always the little things._

That she's an incessant fidgeting woman and always touches her face or head, one way or another, every few minutes, when feeling happy.

That she has a weakness for rescuing stray animals.

That when she says _'please'_ , her eyes crinkle and her brows furrow and she looks so apologetic for asking you something, no matter how small.

That she reserves her talent for speaking in a cartoon-like voice which sounds little or nothing like her real voice for parties and little nephews or nieces and kids in general, basking in the way they would laugh and love her ever more so.

That when doing the laundry, she whistles the Scarecrow/Tin Man/Cowardly Lion song and refuses to stop, resorting to humming as quietly as possible when someone tells her off.

That she can calculate the total of any items put in a shopping cart and tax to within $0.05.

That she has a penchant for any accessories with owls but is afraid of being close to them.

That when she's talking to someone, her hands are always busy. That she draws random doodles on any piece of paper in front her and always keeps a pen or pencil handy in her purses.

And forever honest even about the smallest things. Always telling the truth even to her own detriment. But never insinuating that she actually did it.

_'I may have told Barney and Robin about our first night.'_

_'I may have replaced the vase with the one I may have spent five hours looking for in a flea market.'_

_'I may have put too much spice in it.'_

_'I may have called your mother and asked she mail it right away. But only because maybe Marshall told me you would **maybe** like it.' _

_'I may have dropped it in the sink and may have called a bad plumber to get it but...'_

He smiles as he watches her, apron and all, setting down the food on the table, smiling proudly at herself and looking for candles around his drawers and cupboards.

He felt oddly relaxed, despite the earlier pain in the back of his shoulder as he'd been hunched all day. _Aging_ , he had thought. _I'm getting too old for this._

He looked at his watch. She must have been here all afternoon, then.

He hangs his coat quietly and shakes his head.

“Second to the left."

She looks startled but then she gives him the brightest smile he'd ever seen today; she always had the brightest, prettiest, warmest smile. She points a forefinger at him. "Gotcha."

He breathes out a small sigh and smiles lazily.

 _Home_ , he thought. _Thank God, I'm home._

He loosens his tie as she locates the candles and he sorts through his mail and sees the magazine he'd subscribed years ago, having the nicest photos of the country and seaside.

"You're home early," she says as she lights up the candles. Then she behind him, small sure arms wrapped around his torso _. God, I should really stop eating those bagels_. "I didn't think you'd be home until seven."

He turned to her, putting aside the magazine with the lighthouse on the cover. "I had a feeling you'd be here."

"Lily told you."

_"Lily told me."_

They smiled at each other and he nipped her nose before the soft, gentle kiss. _The thousandth of millions more to come that he wants to give her._

They pull back and look at each other, arms around each other, just swaying together absently as they smiled. He brushes aside a stray stand of beautiful and soft chocolate curls.

"Let's go out next weekend," he said suggestively, eyes bright with excitement. " _Farhampton_?"

"Really? What's up, Mosby? What're you thinking?" She suspiciously asked. After all, she had been _quite_ the detective too.

He reached for the magazine. "I wanna try going up the lighthouse again."

She laughed and kissed the side of his jaw. "Are we going to finally face your trauma? Remember, you can't throw up this time. The poor man had to clean up after you!"

"Hey, hey, that had not been voluntary," he chastised.

"Upchucking is never truly voluntary. It's a reflex _. Instinctive. Automated_."

"Miss Smarty Pants."

"I'm hot and you know it."

He gave her a look and pinched her cheek. "You are. So. Next weekend?"

" _Well_..."

"Come on. I'll handle your boss. She loves me."

"She loves the dried fruit and nuts gift basket, Mosby, not _you_." She poked his chest, her eyes telling him that her boss did not appreciate his last attempt to teach her about Neo-Freudianism at the last company excursion.

"She was the one who regarded **_Kohurt_** was the winner." He defended himself. The woman was ridiculous. "I mean, really? Kohurt? That self theorist who radically departed from Sigmund's Freud conjectural conceptualizations, focusing mostly on people's need for self-organization and self-expression. Shouldn't really call himself Freud's---"

She gave him a straight face and he waved a hand. _Stop_. She meant _'Love, I know. Baby, I know... But please stop.'_

" _Fine_. No more relationship between narcissistic personality and borderline personality or pathological narcissim lectures. She'll love me even better," he insisted, squeezing her shoulders as she looked at him hesitantly. "So come on. What do you say?"

She snorted in soft disbelief and sighed. " _Fine_. But please don't make her call me again for a meeting. She can rant for God knows how long."

He winked boyishly and she pushed away from him, holding his hand to lead him to the table.

She had soft and small hands. They'd always been perfect inside his large, calloused ones. She never minded and barely let him go _. Like magnets_.

He pocketed one hand and held the small ring inside like a secret.

He wanted to come home every day.

 _Home to her_. _Home that was her._  

**Author's Note:**

> Because the finale left me a wreck of a person for weeks and I'm still not over it. They _deserved_ better. And I once carried a torch for Ted and Robin but the ending just was... _ **no**_.


End file.
